Gamoudi had selected a familiar but lonely route that would swiftly bring them into a rugged stretch of hillside with deep escarpments and plenty of cover. After two miles they stopped. Gamoudi sat on a low rock and fired up the cell phone.
He pressed the power switch and then hit the single button that would relay him and his satellite position to the comms room in the U.S.S. Shiloh. He felt an instant tremor of excitement when the call went through immediately and a voice responded, “Comms.”
However, Gamoudi’s excitement hardly registered compared to the exhilaration onboard the Shiloh.
We got him! 33.08N 08.06W. He’s on the line. Captain. Comms. We got him right here…get Giselle…it’s Colonel Gamoudi, and he’s damn close.
The words We got him were repeated about 200 times in the next half minute, Comms to Captain Pickard. Comms to the XO. Giselle. The ops room. Navigation room. The SEAL boss Lt. Cdr. Brad Taylor. Sometimes you don’t even need a telephone in a warship—everyone just finds out, from the engine room to the fore-deck, from the galley to the missile director. It’s a bush telegraph on the high seas, perfectly reliable and very fast.
Captain Pickard spoke carefully. “Colonel Gamoudi, my ship is about eighty miles off the coast of Morocco, in the port of Agadir. How far are you from the port?”
“I’m in the mountains, around one hundred miles east of Agadir.”
“Are you in significant danger?”
“Negative right now. But the French Secret Service has made three attempts on my life, and I have reason to believe there will be others.”
“Are you alone?
“No. Two friends.”
“Can you make Agadir?”
“I think so.”
“How long?”
“Maybe five days’ trekking.”
“Can you remain in communication?”
“Affirmative. Say, every twelve hours?”
“From now. Let me connect you with Giselle…but don’t waste your battery.”
Jacques Gamoudi gave himself one minute on the line to his wife, who had recovered fully from being kidnapped in Pau and now wanted to know only that he was alive. There was no time for details, no time for explanations, just the overpowering sense of relief they were both safe, in his case temporarily, but for the moment safe.
The Colonel shoved the phone in his pocket and climbed to his feet, leading his little group up the steep slopes of this craggy, barren moonscape. It was now clear that Agadir was their destination. Gamoudi selected a route that would take them off the beaten track, away from other trekkers and mountain guides.
Over the next four hours they climbed almost 1,800 feet and a total of six miles. Here they took a rest and drank some water, and very slowly, Jacques Gamoudi turned to Rashood and said, “You don’t have to come any farther with me. I can find my way to the seaport. You have both done enough.”
The Hamas General grinned and said, “If it hadn’t been for you, old friend, I’d be in a grave in Marseille. I’m not leaving you until we reach the dockyard. Besides, you never know when the French hit men are going to arrive.”
“They’ll never find me,” replied Gamoudi.
“Maybe not. But I’ll bet they’ll try. And they might get lucky.”
Down below them they could see the climbers and walkers on the regular trail, almost all of them with guides, and some of them with mules carrying their baggage.
“We just need to avoid being seen by any of them,” said Gamoudi. “The country’s steep and rough, but we must avoid the villages of Ouaneskra and Tacheddirt—that’s where everyone is headed. We’ll stop at a summer settlement called Azib Likempt. It won’t be open yet, but there’s shelter in some old stone huts.”
They camped in there for the freezing cold night, cooked some sausages, and thanked God for the quality of the sleeping bags Abdul had purchased. By mid-morning on Saturday they were up beyond the snow line, through the windy mountain pass at Tizi-Lekempt, and on their way to the flat pastures high above the Azib.
Right then, Ravi Rashood heard the first sound of a huge military helicopter, its massive rotor lashing noisily through the mountain air. The high peaks completely obscured the view, but the sound was so intense General Rashood guessed there were more than one.
“Jesus,” he said. “Jacques, we have to find cover. Which way?”
“That way,” snapped Le Chasseur, pointing southwest. “Come on…run…run…run.”
Carrying their heavy burdens, all three of them set off down the escarpment, heading for a great rocky overhang they could dive behind. Gamoudi kept urging them forward. They reached the rock just as two AS532 Cougar Mark Ones came rocketing around the high southern slope of the mountain.
The noise was ferocious, but the pilots were going slowly, making short low-level circles above the terrain, obviously in search mode.
“Holy shit,” said Rashood, looking up. “Those fucking things have search radar, infrared heat-seeking and Christ knows what else.”
“I’m too cold to register,” volunteered Shakira.
“Quick, get under there!” yelled Gamoudi, “You too, Ravi. They’re headed straight toward us.”
All three of them dived for cover, Jacques Gamoudi in last place. But it was immediately obvious that the helicopter surveillance crew had seen something. They circled around at low speed, one after the other, flying back only fifty feet above the ground, above the enormous rock that provided shelter for the three fugitives.
Rashood, Shakira, and Gamoudi flattened themselves onto the ground, praying that the helicopters would not land and begin a ground search. There was no doubt in Colonel Gamoudi’s mind: the French could operate with impunity in Morocco, which was a privilege the United States did not have. Not good, he thought.
The helicopters circled for twenty minutes, before clattering off, dead slow, almost reluctantly, to the west. “We have to get the hell out of here,” said Rashood. “Didn’t you get the feeling they thought they’d spotted something?”
“I did,” said the Colonel. “And in my view they’ve gone to get permission to stage a military search up here.”
“From the Moroccans?” asked Rashood.
“No, no. Just from their superiors. But they might want to touch base with the Moroccan military before they go ahead. It’s a serious matter to start operations in a foreign country, especially if people are going to get shot.”
“You’re not referring to us, are you, Jacques?” asked Shakira.
“I hope to hell I’m not.”
“Well, where do we go?” said Rashood.
“I know somewhere, two miles west. The country’s pretty flat getting there, so we’ll have to be fast across the ground.”
“How about if those wild men in the helicopters come back and start searching?” said Sharira.
“That’s what bothers me,” said the Colonel. “If we stay here and they come back and land, we’re dead. We have to run and we have to run now, while the coast is relatively clear.”
“That’s my view also,” said Rashood. “Come on guys, let’s go. Jacques, lead the way!”
Running fast with the big packs was out of the question. Shakira carried less and could manage a decent jog, but it was very tough for the two men, who kept going at a steady military pace that would not break any records, but would probably have caused a person of normal fitness to drop dead.
They made the shelter of a big shadowy rock face to the northwest, and fought their way along a mountain trail that was really not much more than a ledge. All the way along, the stones and dust beneath their feet shifted and crumbled. And all three of them tried not to look to the right, to the almost sheer drop of 2,000 feet to the floor of the valley.
The helicopters returned when the three were at least a slow 200 yards from the destination Jacques Gamoudi had planned. Out of breath and holding on to any foliage that occasionally sprang out of the face of the mountain, they were now inching their way forward, grabbing with t
heir left hands, trying not to slide over the edge.
The mountain shielded them from direct sight of the pilots, unless the copters suddenly swerved westward and began searching the granite wall of this escarpment—which they very well might, at any moment. The fact was, there was no cover, and the only hope was for the French pilots to continue searching the reasonable side of Mount Aksoul, rather than bother with the sheer rock face on the west side, just below the summit—the side upon which only a lunatic would venture.
The racket from the rotors was still echoing, unseen, in the mountain air when the three of them reached a point where Jacques Gamoudi told them to unclip their packs and haul out the mountaineering gear.
He swiftly uncoiled the ropes, hammered in the securing crampons, and made the lines fast. He then looped the harness expertly around Rashood’s chest, clipped on the climbing ropes, handed over the gloves, and told Rashood to assay over the edge and down the rock face for forty-seven feet exactly and then swing into a cave.
“Who, me?” said Rashood. “What if there isn’t a cave?”
“There is,” replied Gamoudi. “I’ve been in it dozens of times. Go now, feet first, and hang on tight to both lines.”
Rashood slithered over the edge, leaned back, and began, effectively, to walk backward down the sheer cliff face.
“You’re secure up here…this’ll hold you, even if you fall.”
“I’m not going to fall,” Rashood called back. “I’m going straight into that bloody cave when I find it.”
Colonel Gamoudi chuckled and watched for the little black sticky tape he had attached to the line to reach the edge. When it did so, he called, “Right there, Ravi! Right in front of you.”
“Got it!” yelled the General. “I’m in!”
“Great work!” called Gamoudi. “Now unclip and send the line back. Okay, Shakira, you’re next…and I want you to understand: I have the spare line attached to your belt, and it’s playing out through this fitting. You CANNOT fall. Even if the rope broke, which it wouldn’t because you weigh less than a ton, you still could not fall.”
Shakira was terrified. She watched Gamoudi clip on the harness, then the lines. She pulled on the gloves and slithered backward to the edge. However, the thought of leaning back was too much and she just kept scrabbling at the rock face with her feet, until she felt her husband’s hands grab her and haul her into the cave. She was trembling like a songbird’s heart.
Gamoudi checked that the lines were set for the climb back, and then he went over the edge, hot-roping it down in five long strides, landing dexterously on the front ridge of the cave.
“Have you done that a few times before?” asked Rashood.
“Just a couple,” grinned the French Colonel. “I could do that when I was nine years old.”
Ten minutes later, the first of the Cougars came rattling around the mountain, about 400 yards from where the three fugitives sat at the back of the cave, thirty feet from the entrance. It was impossible for anyone to see into the cold gloom of the place, and the dark brown of their lines outside made their climbing equipment invisible. Even the crampons were black.
But Rashood feared the heat-seeking radars, and he told the others to flatten themselves against the floor of the cave as far back as possible. The lead helicopter came past twice more, and intermittently, throughout the afternoon, they could hear the search continuing.
Just before dusk both Cougars flew once more, slowly across the west face of the mountain. Rashood was relieved they did not fire a couple of rockets straight into the cave, as he himself would most certainly have done if he’d had even an inkling that his quarry was inside. But perhaps they didn’t.
As night fell, Jacques Gamoudi hammered one of the crampons into the hard rock of the wall and made the climbing rope fast. He clipped on, and with a bag of crampons attached to his belt, he moved out onto the rock face, left of the entrance. Secured now by two ropes, he began the climb up, hammering in a stairway of steel crampons for Rashood and Shakira to use to follow him.
At the top he dropped the rope down for Shakira and called for her to clip it to her harness. He half pulled her, and Shakira half climbed her way to the top, following the zigzagging line of crampons expertly smacked into the mountain by Jacques Gamoudi.
Rashood brought up the rear, faster than Shakira but not like a true mountaineer. In fact, the Hamas C-in-C looked mightily relieved to be standing on firm ground rather than in an eagle’s nest, 2,000 feet above terra firma.
The next leg of the journey was a long four-day haul through the wildest lands, over the Ouimeksane Mountain range and down to the deep blue waters of the d’Ifni Lake. But they were no longer being pursued, and the days passed easily. They hit the tiny village of Taliouine on the morning of April 23, purchased a hot meal of spiced lamb and rice in the town’s only restaurant, and bought the proprietor’s car for 30,000 dirhams.
Three hours later, after a fast run down the P-32 highway, they reached the outskirts of Agadir. It was 3 P.M. Gamoudi touched base with the Shiloh, suggesting that they send in the ship to meet him on the dock in five hours, after dark.
The comms room informed him that the cell phone would now be connected to that of the SEAL team leader, Lt. Cdr. Brad Taylor, who was bringing in an eight-man squad for the getaway. “Just keep hitting the GPS beam so we know exactly where you are—every few minutes after 1930.”
Colonel Gamoudi thanked the American communications officer and spoke briefly to Lt. Commander Taylor.
“Try to get down there and get your bearings before we arrive,” he said. “But don’t risk anything.”
“I’m afraid I have no idea what the place looks like, and I have no chart or even a map,” replied the Colonel. “How about I touch base in three hours? I’ll know more then.”
“Perfect,” replied the SEAL boss. “And remember, they’ve got a couple of Moroccan Navy warships at one end of the harbor. We’ll be staying well away from them. Check out the other end, to the north. We’ll talk in three.”
Out there on the edge of the town, Gamoudi could see no sign of his French pursuers, but of course that did not mean they weren’t there. He gassed up the car and parked it in a deserted, unobtrusive square above the town. Then they all changed out of their mountain gear and into the light pants, sneakers, and shirts.
It was much warmer down here. They strolled down to the port, where they were shocked to see maybe twenty or even thirty French commandos standing around in small groups all along the docks.
They instantly turned back up the narrow, busy street, secure in the knowledge that no one knew them, no one would recognize them, and no one had any idea they were traveling as a group of three. Nonetheless, it might not be easy to make a break tonight, and board a boat in the harbor, not even with the help of the fabled U.S. Navy SEALs.
And so they waited, out on the edge of town. At 7:30 Colonel Gamoudi beamed up his GPS position, and told Lt. Commander Taylor he was about to walk down to the dock, and would meet the SEALs, as agreed, on the south side of the north harbor, the one filled with little blue fishing boats and surrounded by a rocky sea wall.
Gamoudi had seen a tall yellow crane on the shore side. They would use that as a beacon.
“We’re less than a half mile offshore,” said the Lt. Commander.
“We’re gonna cut the engine and row in.”
“Copy,” said the Colonel.
In company with Rashood and Shakira, he walked on down toward the water. Out in the offshore waters, Brad Taylor, in company with four other SEALs, went over the side, complete with wet suits, Draeger breathing apparatus, flippers, and sealed waterproof automatic rifles.
There were 400 yards left to swim. They headed straight for the crane, all five of them, maintaining a depth of twelve feet below the surface. Brad Taylor wanted an armed guard on that dock, and he was not going to get one by driving the big inflatable up to the jetty and tying up beneath the lights, in full view of anyone who might
be watching.
They landed on the pitch dark beach, around the corner from the seawall, and took off their flippers, clipping them to their belts. Each man kept his black rubber hood on, which was damned uncomfortable but rendered them almost invisible.
They hovered in the darkness, taking up positions in the construction areas that seemed to surround the entire place. Taylor checked the GPS. So far as he could see, Colonel Gamoudi was walking within 200 yards, straight toward him.
Taylor hit the button of his phone and Gamoudi answered. “How many of you?” asked Brad.
“Still three. My two friends,” replied Gamoudi.
Suddenly, the SEAL boss could see them walking through a shadowy narrow gap between two buildings. As he watched, an armed patrol of three uniformed men stepped from the shadows and challenged them.
“Shit,” muttered Taylor, and signaled for two of his team to follow him along the other side of the alleyway. He watched from the darkness. Gamoudi and his companions appeared to be answering the uniformed men’s questions.
Taylor knew these soldiers were French, and his orders were to take no chances. He hissed to his team to open fire. No mistakes. The chatter of the submachine guns was instant. The three French commandos went down like three sacks of laundry.
Lt. Commander Taylor burst out of his cover and crossed the rough ground. “GAMOUDI!” he snapped. “Which one?”
“Right here,” replied the Colonel.
“Let’s go, buddy!” And with that, all four of them took off toward the water, leaving an astounded Rashood and Shakira gawping at the running figures, three of them with scuba kit on their backs.
Out of sheer habit, General Rashood leaned down and seized one of the rifles on the ground and led Shakira back into the construction site and toward the town. Their waiting car, up in the square above town, would take them back down the main highway to Marrakesh airport. For them it was over.
It was not, however, over for Jacques Gamoudi. Two more French commandos came racing along the dock following the sound of the gunfire. One of them kept going straight into the rough ground, toward his dead comrades. The other drew his pistol and came straight at the U.S. SEALs. But that was like charging a full-grown Bengal tiger: they cut him down in his tracks.
Hunter Killer Page 48
